Oblivion
by Sacrificial Awakening
Summary: He was decommissioned. But he wasn't the first. Where do the decommissioned nations go? Who knows.


"How did you do it?"

A ragged man stood, leaning against the doorway with all the effort he could muster. Frayed purple indentions curved under his sunken crimson eyes indicating that he hasn't been one-hundred percent in quite some time. His abnormally pristine, snow-white hair was now tussled and bits of silver flicked through it, in a vain attempt to display his true age. He was wearing his old war uniform, a memory that he refused to allow dissolve. The coat was thrown haphazardly over his shoulders for there were too many rips and tears to be able to adorn correctly; instead, he had a simple white button-down shirt above all else.

He leaned, braced against the wall while desperately clinging to it for balance, as if the moment he lost contact with a vertical stability, he'd fall—yet again in a more physical sense. He was panting: lungs on the verge of hyperventilation by the overwhelming and unsteady breaths he was vying to take. Marks and bruises covered his skin—scars that quite possibly would never heal. On his neck were the initials "_DMD"_ burnt into the skin above his collarbone.

_Decommissioned._

I knew it well.

"How did I do what?"

With all the anger he could pull from within, he slammed the side of his fist into the wall; and with clenched teeth, he choked out, "Don't fuck with me, Britannia! Answer the damn question."

I released a breath through my nose—I knew exactly what he was talking about, especially with the way he addressed me.

"Britannia was decommissioned as well, Prussia. I am referred to as 'England' now seeing as though I took his place."

It was a common occurrence; of course, it happened enough in history to almost call it a "law." Empires that become too large, have gone over the carrying capacity, always have the tendency to "snap back" and fall apart. It's much a like a rubber band that has been stretched too far. Military conquests and genocide normally would cause such a…"snap."

He wrenched his burning eyes shut, and the sound of his punch reverberated throughout the entire room once more. He shook his head and strained for breath when it looked like he was about to choke, "No! I am the Great Prussian Empire! I _can't_ be decommissioned!"

As soon as he reached to rip the coat that was hanging loosely around his shoulders to turn and throw it to the floor, he fell to his knees with a hand close to shredding his hair from his scalp. He used his palm to cover his eyes which lead me to believe that he was close to crying. Lying in a heap on my floor, he strangled his words when he said, "Does this mean that West has replaced me…?"

"No. You're still alive, are you not?" I had to bite back the inherent ability to comfort him. We might not be friends, and we're not completely enemies, but I knew what he felt- all very too well.

His head shot up, and he held a look of pained fury in his desperate eyes, "But I'm so fucking weak! This is not the 'awesome me'!"

Ah, so that was how he characterized the "awesome him." His great empire days.

I didn't want to believe it, but I could see the stains of where salt water began to drip down his face. It was never a good to when a man began to cry. He was torn, split apart, and nearly abandoned to the complete nothingness of a lost nation. There was neither a Heaven nor a Hell for us. Just a void of nothing where many great territories, empires, and nations alike had been cast aside for outliving their use: Mesopotamia, the Byzantine Empire, and Ancient Greece were the best examples of such.

I understood completely.

"But you're still alive. Is that not reason enough to keep going? You're still here for a reason." I began to inch closer and then drop to his eye level. As much as I don't mind talking down to people, Prussia was one of the only people who could, at this moment, appreciate fully and completely what I had gone through those many years ago. And I was going to make sure he knew he wasn't alone.

"Oh yeah? To do what? Get absorbed by Russia or West? That's not a purpose at all, England!" he was not angry. But his confusion led him instinctually to be pushed in to a corner to where he was attempting to fight his way out. He was illogical and bordering along being in or out of control.

"Germany has high respect for you, Prussia; so therefore, he could never do that to his brother. Russia, on the other hand, is well…he's going to try no matter which nation he calls upon to join him." There was nothing more I could tell him other than the truth.

What else could I do? I barely made it out alive myself after my former self was decommissioned. What advice could I offer this collapsed nation before me when I was still coping with the effects of whence Britannia had fallen? There were no words of reassurance that I could offer to my once-enemy; no promises that could I could venture to give him hope. So what was it any of my business to be aiding him? All of my next words would hold the capacity of an empty suggestion- no use.

Much of like who I am today.

I bit back the proceeding thoughts as Prussia met my gaze with eyes pleading but teeth glowering. His breaths were coursing at such a rate through his throat that they were coming out as low savage growls; his shoulders and chest were heaving out of sync with his breathing.

"The Berlin Wall was crushed," his windpipe sounded like it was tearing itself with the crushing breaths he took. "My people call themselves _Deutsch _instead of _Preuße._" His face became parallel with the ground as he keeled over to begin a racuous coughing fit, and his arms flew out in front of him to catch the floor before he crumpled into it. "West..." His eyes looked up to come into contact with mine when I noticed that the red hue was glazed over with a thin notion of consciousness and a thin trail of blood running over his lips, "Germany will have dissolved my identity by the end of this month."

He eventually succumbed to his grief and fainted.

It was the eighteenth G7 summit that was being hosted by none other than Germany. Most of the conference was centered around the newly independent states of the former Soviet Union (we all sat a little farther from Russia than normal) and Central and Eastern Europe.

During the break for lunch, I had overheard a discussion Germany was holding with the European Commission about his idea introduced in 1990 about the "German Reunification." In retrospect, the proposal sounded like it would smoothe over many complications that had arose when dealing with the territories of Europe. But when asked about what he was going to name the states bordering to the East, Germany shrugged with a "Berlin-Brandenburg."

That's when a series of hoarse coughing ripped the casual silence not too far from where Germany stood. Attention was drawn to a fair-haired man, slightly hunched over and holding his sides as each cough beat his chest with a force heavy enough to bruise.

Germany, while still maintaining his composure, rushed over to the man and laid a hand on his back. His ice cold eyes were sincere as he asked, "Are you all right, _bruder_?"

After a successful attempt to smother the inflammation gathering in his throat, Prussia slapped the hand away playfully and smirked. He spoke with assurance that was close to being _too _reassuring, "Of course I'm awesome! Nothing can touch me!"

And I was the only one who caught the lie fletched in his voice.

_"I will never be okay."_

* * *

_The first part is set in February 1947 while the second part is set in June 1992, in case anyone was confused._

Intially, I was just throwing some words down without a plot or meaning, but then it evolved into something of a head!cannon. And I really like to venture into the human psyche. I think I need to elaborate more on England's perspective on this.  
Maybe.

And this is on my deviantArt page, if anyone sees a semblance.

Hetalia does not belong to me.


End file.
